During these last few years, during which and since I lost my parents, I've often thought about the questions I did and didn't ask them. Some, that have to do with my father's childhood and Army days, I've been able to ask my uncle Bert. For the latter days of my mother's childhood and beyond, I could ask my uncle Arian. But when it comes to my own childhood, there's no one left. My brother, who would have been the best if not necessarily an objective witness, died in 2005.
It occurred to me this morning that along with many details of my earliest past, I'm forgetting my far more recent past. When I try to remember my children's childhoods, whether to answer a question or not, I often can't. Either I can't remember to which child a detail pertains, or I can't retrieve it at all. So even if I could still ask my parents my various questions, they might not be able to answer me. I'm not sure whether that's a comfort, exactly, but it at least softens some regrets.
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